Specimens of Swedish and German poetry, tr. by J.E.D. Bethune. Poems of E. Tegner. Schiller's Maid of Orleans

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Page 155 - ... a foreign language. Neither is it sufficient, that he be able to judge of words and style ; but he must be a master of them too ; he must perfectly understand his author's tongue, and absolutely command his own. So that, to be a thorough translator, he must be a thorough poet.
Page 155 - Thus it appears necessary, that a man should be a nice critic in his mother-tongue, before he attempts to translate in a foreign language. Neither is it sufficient, that he be able to judge of words and style ; but he must be a master of them too; he must perfectly understand his author's tongue, and absolutely command his own.
Page 155 - I have already hinted a word or two concerning it ; that is, the maintaining the character of an author, which distinguishes him from all others, and makes him appear that individual poet whom you would interpret.
Page viii - I feel myself wholly innocent, at least, of carelessness : I wish to own that, where I have failed to render the spirit of my author, it is from inability to do better; and* not because I do not see my faults, or because I have not endeavoured to make my work as good as I could, with more pains and care, perhaps, than were altogether justified by the nature of it.
Page 1 - Poefs own, For, Memory's daughter is the genuine Muse; His world is that Atlantis, which sank down, With all its loftier aims and nobler views. Its woods still whisper from the Ocean springs, In moonlight there its wandering spirits throng, A shadowy race ; and, on their dripping wings, They raise themselves to listen to his song. Take then a picture of the olden time, As Sagas paint it in the rocky North; But, as on crumbling stones the Runic rhyme, How dimly, faintly, is it shadowed forth. Far...
Page 123 - Sight and hearing then are gone: But, when he holds his warbling breath, Crouch down, as low, as still as death. Heed not that the swamp is deep, Through the marshes you must creep; If the victor you would win, Get your rifle's range within. Fire! Hushed is the song, dispersed the choir, And in the warbler's heart the lead. But he died without a pang, Fondest loved, and sweetest sang, Happy dead!
Page 69 - The frozen waters of the North infest, All foreign lands, each yet unharassed shore, All, save the hidden Islands of the Blest. Great is the world; swarms not the grass with life ? Myriads of creatures throng the yeasty main; And yet, no room on earth for aught but strife; One happy Being it cannot contain. High hearted friend! no longer seek to shape, Comfort and hope from what on earth you find; But rather from the stormy times escape To the safe haven of your own pure mind. To the heart's silent...
Page 68 - ... down to die : The hour is come; with bloody hair and brow The new year rises in the troubled sky. Look round! from North to South, from East to West, From Sunrise till he seeks his Ocean bed, Peace has no shrine, no home, no place of rest, And Freedom finds not where to lay her head. Despairing efforts many a champion made To vindicate the right, without avail: No law of nations, but the conqueror's blade, Falls in the balance, and weighs down the scale. With bloody breast, with trailing broken...
Page xi - I was engaged in learning it; but its close affinity to German on the one hand, and English on the other, affords great facilities to those who have any knowledge of those languages, and renders the study of it exceedingly interesting.
Page x - ... subjoin a few lines by way of specimen, taken from the beginning of the poem. Whitsuntide's holy feast was come, the church of the village Whitewashed, shone in the morning light. On the spire of the clock-tower Gay with a golden vane, the friendly flame of the Spring-sun Gleamed like the tongues of fire, which of old time crowned the Apostles. Bright was the Heaven and blue ; young May, with a garland of roses Stood in her holiday garb on the land: the winds and the waters Sang of gladness and...

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